


foolish mortals welcome

by h_lovely



Series: spooky specials [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blood, Blood Drinking, Fishnets, M/M, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, but not really, shameless flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 20:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21259232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h_lovely/pseuds/h_lovely
Summary: Hanamaki visits a club catering to those that are...hungryfor something more.





	foolish mortals welcome

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween, darlings!

Hanamaki doesn’t usually indulge like this.

Sure, in a previous life he could drink and party with the best of them. When he was little, he could devour his way through a silver platter of cream-filled profiteroles like it was his job. He’d never shied away from helping his mother in the kitchen just to get an early taste or two. When he was a bit older, he could put away an entire bottle of shōchū by himself with nothing more to show for it than pink cheeks and eyes just a bit more hooded than usual. Right up until the end, he lived life to its fullest degree. Truly, with the best of them.

But—that was then. 

He doesn’t usually indulge like this. _This_, in particular, being a club hidden away in the dark crevices beneath Kabukichō, all lovely red and violet lights lit dim to obscure and intrigue. The music is low and bass-heavy, not exactly to his taste but he won’t bother with complaining about that. In fact, the locale isn’t really worth complaining about at all when there are other, much more pressing details to be annoyed over. 

For instance, the insistent press of netted tights encasing the ever-sensitive skin of his legs, barely covered in a pair of black jeans sure to have cost a pretty penny despite how utterly torn to shreds they already are. 

“It’s called distressed,” Oikawa murmurs through pouted lips when Hanamaki voices this latest complaint.

He stares back over the rim of his red-stained glass, contemplating things far worse than true-death for his friend’s overt smugness on all matters of this particular evening. “How fitting—they certainly are making me feel that way.”

“You’re being dramatic.” Oikawa’s eyes roll, dip-chocolate cherries in the manufactured shadows. “This is club attire nowadays, Makki.”

Hanamaki frowns at that, vision tilting. “I don’t see Iwaizumi wearing any fishing nets.” 

“Iwa-chan doesn’t need to dress provocatively. He’s already taken,” Oikawa explains, smiling lasciviously as he sprawls a pretty pale arm over the back of the chair next to his. “By _me_.”

Iwaizumi’s nose twitches into a grimace, holding his glass up and away when Oikawa moves to nuzzle into his chest. “Watch it or else I’ll spill this all over you, idiot.”

“Maybe that’s what I want.” The words fall from Oikawa’s glisteny lips, practically a purr. “I’d be all messy—you’d have to find some way to clean me up.”

Hanamaki slams a palm against the table top between them, feeling his stomach convulse. “Can you not?” he growls even if he _should_ be used to such behavior by now, really. “Please explain why you’ve gone to the trouble to dress me in an apparently _provocative_ manner and dragged me into this very loud place if all you’re going to do is flirt?”

The music has since rumbled into something low with a plucking guitar and hypnotizing rhythm. The lights flash a bit more, bright and strobing, making the way Oikawa moves to untangle himself from Iwaizumi look rather more like something out of a morbid documentary; time lapse footage of fungus creeping across decaying flesh. 

“Makki, Makki, Makki,” Oikawa hums, plucking at the straw in his glass. “You need to _eat_.”

It’s not exactly a surprise, but the words still manage to cut Hanamaki somewhere deep in his stomach. A pull, hearty and throbbing, tugs at his gut, up through his spinal chord and into the base of his skull, synapses firing at light speed. He curls his fingers into fists, suddenly aching to tear through the delicate tights if only to give his nails something productive to do. 

Instead, he gives Oikawa the warmest smile he can muster. “I’ve eaten—in fact, I’ve eaten so well this week I don’t feel the least bit hungry, so I guess I’ll just be leaving now.”

When Hanamaki makes to stand, Oikawa’s lips puff out in that signature pout and, like a knee-jerk reaction, Iwaizumi automatically reaches out to latch onto Hanamaki’s wrist. “You know what I mean,” Oikawa pouts. “Bagged breakfast isn’t enough and you know it.”

“Bagged breakfast, bagged lunch, bagged dinner.” Hanamaki shrugs, making an exaggerated show of it. But he does sit back down. “Doesn’t make much of a difference to me at this point.”

“Well it does to me,” says Oikawa, ever the center-of-attention. “Lately you have been, how can I put this nicely—?”

“A cranky asshole,” Iwaizumi interjects with about as much care as a bull in a china shop. Nothing less than expected, of course. 

Oikawa’s cheeks puff up at the harsh words, but when he eyes Iwaizumi’s neutral expression he can’t help but nod. “Well—not exactly nice, but it is the truth.” 

Hanamaki lets the whiplash thrash him for a second or two before planting them both with a dark look.

“What,” he mutters through grit teeth. Shining white, white, white beneath the blue-glow neon. “You dragged me all the way to Kabukichō to tell me I’ve been an asshole to you—to _you two? _The lovebirds of the fucking century who disregard all common curtesy to fuck on the Carrara marble dining table whenever the mood strikes you?”

Oikawa snaps his own teeth at that, arms folding over his chest. “Unfortunately, this pent-up anger is just going to prove our point.”

Hanamaki mimics him, brow raising. “If you want me to move out, just say so.” 

“That’s not it.” Shaking his head, Oikawa adopts an almost worried expression, enough to wrinkle up his usually perfectly smooth features. “We love you, Makki—we were all together well before Iwa-chan and I decided to take things further. We don’t want you to leave us—we just—”

“Maybe it’s time you found someone of your own,” Iwaizumi supplies, voice a bit less hard around the edges this time. He offers Hanamaki a pointed look, but doesn’t bother to elaborate. 

“Someone of my—what the hell are you on about?” Hanamaki croaks in disbelief. If they’re talking about what he thinks they’re talking about—well, that’s just _not_ something he’s willing to talk about. “You do realize we’re in a club specifically catering to our kind? The patrons aren’t exactly here to meet someone like _me_.”

Oikawa frowns at this, pulling apart his words until he understands their real meaning. “We just thought—you don’t have to find someone _permanent_, but maybe a hook-up might do you some good?”

“A hook-up?” Hanamaki grimaces at the way the word tastes in his mouth. 

“It’s not always about feeding,” Oikawa explains. He picks up his drink, swirls the contents up high to the rim just to watch it cling to the glass, dark and fragrant. He hesitates, mulling the words over carefully before adding, “When was the last time you had sex with—well, _anyone?_”

Clearly Hanamaki should have left when he had the chance.

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” he says, moving to stand once again.

“You don’t have to,” Oikawa adds quickly, almost in a panic. “All I want is for you to have a good time, loosen up, maybe get a meal or maybe not—it’s all up to you, Makki.”

“No pressure,” Iwaizumi adds, calm tone entirely opposite that of his partner’s. “We’ll even go disregard common curtesy somewhere else.”

Hanamaki can at least appreciate the gentle ribbing there. It’s not as though he feels like a third wheel all of the time, nor does he resent his friends for finding something lasting between each other. It’s just—

“It’s just—” he starts, feeling the need to explain, but the words don’t seem to want to manifest. “Fine. Go—but please tell me if you bring someone back with you, I do _not_ want a repeat of last time.”

Oikawa hums, head tilting and eyes going glazed like he’s enjoying a particularly good memory. “That did get a little out of hand—but it’s true what they say, pixies have more fun.”

Hanamaki goes so far as to fake gag into his drink. “Gross, please leave already.”

“Let us know too,” Iwaizumi smirks. “If you’re bringing someone back—we’ll stay out of your way.”

Hanamaki has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking back. “Whatever.”

“Good luck, Makki-chan!” Oikawa says before they’re turning and disappearing into the crowd, ink into water. 

* * *

The place isn’t exactly as bad as Hanamaki was making it out to be in his head. Mostly he was just annoyed with Oikawa’s meddling tendencies and the way his jeans are clinging so very tightly in all the most sensitive of areas. But really—the place isn’t _bad_.

It’s different, that’s certainly true, but Hanamaki can see the appeal. All dark shadows, leather couches, and sensual music. The bartenders are dressed to the nines, collared shirts and silk-backed vests, the drinks served in pretty crystal glassware. It’s somehow classy and trashy all at once—not a bad market considering the types of patrons he can see milling about.

It’s distinct, the line between them. There are some, like him, wearing all manner of interesting clothing—leather, lace, denim, even a few three-piece suits floating about. Their complexions moon-glow pale under the neon lights, eyes dark and clearly after more than the bit of liquid in their cups. 

Then there are the others.

The red wrist bands are a nice touch, though Hanamaki thinks it’s less for his benefit and more of a precautionary thing. Keeping people accounted for without making much of a fuss; easy, no room for confusion or mistake. 

The ratios certainly are something to be desirable, he supposes. Perhaps two or three to one. He supposes he can take his pick, like most of his fellow patrons. Wouldn’t be too terribly difficult to find what he desires—what his _friend's_ desire for him. 

But a hook-up or a meal—which one takes precedence here?

Hanamaki abandons his table in favor of the long, sprawling bar. It’s scattered with empty glassware, some lipstick stained and others stained with something much more potent. The space is fairly crowded, but not as claustrophobic as the dance floor sunk down in the club’s center. There are a few groups—mostly girls batting thick, webby lashes and gossiping in each other’s ears when they so much as make eye-contact. It’s not terribly difficult to decipher who’s here for the novelty, the thrill and who is here for something a bit more substantial. 

Hanamaki’s not exactly picky, but he’s not really into settling for just anything either. Sure, he’s got a type, but his pallet is broader than most. It is this reason alone that he knows he could’ve indulged like this sooner, hadn’t needed to wait for Oikawa to drag him, tooth and nail. But also—

An arm caresses his own where he’s leaning into the bar; skin bare and smooth, blood most certainly warm. 

Hanamaki takes a second to cock his head, not trying to assume that the body connected to the appendage had intentionally come so close. His nose twitches automatically, scenting amber cologne and something headier; copper and heat. 

It’s familiar but also entirely foreign all at once. Odd, considering it’s not a scent that should pull anything other than desire to the forefront of his mind. It shouldn’t feel so—_strange_. Like a recipe with one extra minor ingredient, barely detectable to ordinary human senses.

But Hanamaki’s aren’t ordinary, nor are they— 

“Excuse me,” a voice cuts through Hanamaki’s haze of confusion, deep and resonant; crushed velvet against his eardrums. 

At the apology Hanamaki finally looks up, craning his neck all of the way to connect the arm, that voice to a set of dark, heavy-lidded eyes. 

Oh. Well then.

Maybe he can afford to be a bit picky. 

“It’s alright,” he says because he doesn’t exactly know what else to say. He’s not sure the last time he’s spoken to anyone outside of his immediate group of individuals. He probably seems ridiculous, but he can’t help the way his eyes rove up and down the man next to him as he eagerly awaits some kind of response. 

But instead the man just turns back to his drink.

Realistically Hanamaki knows he didn’t bother to start any type of conversation, so really silence is a valid response. But he can’t seem to look away, can’t seem to stop his gaze from following the way the man’s lips part around the edge of his rocks glass, the way the golden liquid inside slips into his mouth, over his tongue, down his _throat_. 

Hanamaki blinks, shaking himself a little. Something warm is starting to brew in his stomach and that has never happened so easy—just from watching this man swallow down some liquor in an over-priced, over-hyped club. _Get a grip._

A bartender appears before them, walking and pumping his silver shaker in timed rhythm with the beat of the man’s pulse beside him. Blood is roaring—thump, thump, _thumping_ through the man’s veins and Hanamaki can hear it, can practically taste it on his tongue already. 

Never—it’s never happened so easy.

On some minor blip of instinct, Hanamaki kicks his hip out, turning ever slightly to face the man in a more proper manner. Well, maybe _proper_ isn’t exactly the correct phrase considering the way Hanamaki’s angling himself just enough to show off the way his ass looks in these unfathomably tight jeans. Around him the sound of conversations and music dies down to a low buzz, his ears honing in on that familiar thrum of healthy, pumping arteries. There’s plenty of others in the club making the exact same maneuvers as he is right now. So, if you can’t beat them—?

“Hey there,” Hanamaki purrs, the words vibrating out against the plush of a pouted lower lip. He’s no stranger to this scene, even if it’s admittedly been a while.

The man turns once again, regarding Hanamaki with those pleasantly dark eyes. It’s nearly impossible to tell their color in the dim lighting, nothing more than flickering false candelabras hovering over the bartop, but Hanamaki thinks maybe there’s a hint of amber when those heavy lids slowly blink. 

There’s a long, hefty beat of silence, so long that Hanamaki almost feels as though the man isn’t going to bother with answering his meager flirtations. But then, without much warning, the man’s mouth pulls into a full, slick smirk and Hanamaki freezes all the way down to his toes kept snug in his borrowed Chelsea boots. 

“Hey there,” the man repeats, though that velvet voice of his does a lot to draw out the syllables, making the simple words seem like anything but. Hanamaki, ignoring the shiver down his spine, decides that maybe he’s just a bit more out of practice than he’d originally thought. 

He’s never met someone—someone like _this_, that’s had quite this much of an effect on him before. It’s odd, certainly. But also—

“D’you come here often?” Hanamaki asks before he can bother with formulating anything a bit more smooth. He tries hard to disguise his grimace with a quick flick of his red tongue over perfect, white teeth. 

“Is that the best you’ve got?” the man replies and even if it aught to feel like a slap in the face, somehow he manages to make the words sound more compelling than anything else. “I’ve heard better.”

Hanamaki will admit that the line was a cheesy one. It might’ve worked on the eyelash-fluttering girls or someone a bit more desperate for the club’s main form of offering. But this guy—he definitely doesn’t seem like the desperate type. 

“I—” Hanamaki starts, but he can’t really think of how to defend himself at all. Maybe he aught to cut his losses here, tap-out and find Oikawa and Iwaizumi. Maybe he can commiserate with a fresh bag at home, hopefully without the sound of fucking vibrating through the entire household. 

“Maybe I should be asking you,” the man says around Hanamaki’s obvious fumbling. He’s got his whole body turned now, finally giving the conversation his fullest attention. “Do you come here often? Don’t really seem the type.”

The question is enough to jolt Hanamaki out of whatever minor panic had come over him, a deep furrow creasing between his brows. This sort of thing isn’t something he’s used to. Banter like this—usually there’s a whole lot less talking in exchanges like this one. 

He feels annoyingly hesitant, but curious enough to entertain the man’s obvious jab. “And what type do I seem like then?”

“The type more used to biting bags than necks.” A shrug, as though the words hadn’t been anything more than a simple observation. “Not that that’s a bad thing.”

It’s an insult, one that some wouldn’t be taking quite so lightly. But Hanamaki can’t exactly feel too angry, considering the guy has him pegged exactly right. 

Okay. If it’s games he wants to play, Hanamaki will allow it. Especially since that broad smirk has turned from simply intriguing to something a bit more difficult to resist—almost _wolfish_. 

“So what if I am?” Hanamaki leans further into the bartop, crossing his legs at the ankle in a casual manner. “Doesn’t mean my bite isn’t just as good as the rest of them.”

Something flashes, dark and liquid, in the man’s eyes. “Oh yeah?” 

Hanamaki meats his gaze with a heavy-lidded one of his own, moth-wing lashes flickering. “Yeah,” he answers like it’s obvious. 

“I don’t really know if I believe you.” The man shifts again, almost a posturing gesture. He straightens to his full height, the silky smoke tank he’s got on fluttering over his broad shoulders, so broad they make his waist look even slimmer where it’s cinched with a tight, brushed-leather belt. “Might need a bit of a demonstration.”

Somewhere across the dance floor a few yells raise up when a particular song starts to pump through the speakers, vibrating up through the soles of Hanamaki’s feet. He feels both steady and unstable all at once, eyeing the man the best he can without giving too much away.

“Who’s doing the picking-up here?” he wonders carefully, keeping his tone flirtatious. “You or me?”

“Oh?” the man murmurs, lips shining beneath the candle glow. “Did you think you’d be the one in control?”

Something in Hanamaki’s ribcage shudders, such a bizarre sensation, something he hasn’t felt in decades. Electricity courses through him, hairs standing on edge, skin prickling beneath the man’s watchful gaze. 

He’s doing it on purpose, that much is clear, but Hanamaki doesn’t quite know what to do about that. 

The man simpers, something almost sympathetic if it wasn’t so fake. “Most do. But—”

He pauses, leans an inch or two closer, baiting the air between them. Hanamaki should’t take it, shouldn’t allow this man the control he so clearly desires. But he can’t help it, maybe it’s in his nature—but he just can’t help but bite. 

Hanamaki swallows the dryness from his tongue. “_But?_”

The man smiles, like he’s won. Which at this point, it’s really no question if he has or not. “I like it,” he explains, entirely uninhibited. “Being the one in control.”

From Hanamaki’s peripheral vision he can make out the bartender, in his perfectly pressed uniform, expertly filling two crystal wine glasses with a beautiful, milk-smooth flow of red. 

His teeth are beginning to ache just a little, but he’s not sure if it’s from thirst or frustration at this point. “That’s a little off-script,” Hanamaki says, attempting to distract himself with watching a stray drip of liquid crawling slowly down to meet the lacquer black counter. “Especially for a place like this.”

“I don’t mind it.,” comes the easy explanation, because _of course_. “It’s more of a challenge.”

Hanamaki flicks his eyes back to the man, a spark in those words forcing a surge through his muscles, tensing and ready to strike. “A challenge?” he inquires, keeping his voice steady. “Am I wrong here or—you’re not a—?”

“I’m not,” the man appeases, clearly noticing Hanamaki’s new state of being. He even goes so far as to lean back into the counter, slouching and tucking away his little dominant pretense in a show of good faith. “Don’t get me wrong, control has nothing to do with who it is that's doing the biting.” 

The words are enough though—even without the demeanor to back them up.

There’s not a single response Hanamaki can think of, especially considering he’s not exactly ready to _deny_ him. So instead he just frowns, allowing canines to scrape a bit along his lower lip. “You’re—_odd._”

“And you’re gorgeous,” the man fires back, a flick of the tongue. “Bet you’d look even better with a mouthful of my blood—or maybe my _cock._”

Whatever sensation that had been brewing earlier comes to a full roiling boil inside of Hanamaki’s stomach, those netted tights suddenly feeling much more constricting than he ever thought possible. Maybe it’s the choice of words, oily and slicked with something pleasantly dirty. Or maybe it’s the man’s expression, so carefully neutral and yet so full of lecherous intent.

It’s enough, either way, Hanamaki decides. 

His lips part, the air between them full of something so dangerous and sweet it tingles his tastebuds. “Would you like to come home with me?” 

That smirk returns, full power, but also somehow entirely genuine. “Thought you’d never ask.” 

Hanamaki feels himself slipping soon enough to catch it, nails doing their best to dig shallow graves into his palms. “Charming,” he says with as much sarcasm as he can manage. “So, do I get a name or—?”

“Matsukawa,” comes the easy answer. “But you can call me Issei if you like.”

Issei. It sounds nice inside of Hanamaki’s head when he repeats it over and over. It might vibrate over his tongue when he speaks it aloud, something pleasant aching through his jawbones at the idea of getting his mouth around the syllables. 

“Hanamaki,” he offers sparingly, because he’s sure he’s played too much of his hand already. 

That smirk morphs into something more akin to a pout. “That’s all I get?” 

But Hanamaki isn’t about to argue this, pretty pout or not. “Do you need anything more?”

Matsukawa’s brow quirks, clearly amused. “I suppose I can make due,” he says, turning back to his nearly forgotten drink. “Anyone ever call you Makki?”

Hanamaki watches for a beat as Matsukawa picks up his glass, swirling the last dregs of golden alcohol up along the sides. His mind whirs, fighting instinct, but he allows his hand to reach out and snatch ahold of Matsukawa’s wrist.

“I’ll warn you now,” he explains, leaning into the man’s space enough that he can smell the whiskey on his lips. “If you call me that in bed, neither of us are going to leave satisfied.”

Matsukawa doesn’t startle but he doesn’t ask either, apparently willing to allow Hanamaki his meager tactics in intimidation. The skin beneath his fingers feels warm to the touch, much warmer than what Hanamaki is used to especially considering the state of his own body’s heat. 

“Someone’s sensitive,” Matsukawa mouths, but he’s clearly endeared by the whole situation, regarding Hanamaki with an eager spark. “So you’re taking me to bed are you?”

Hanamaki narrows his eyes, releasing the man’s wrist with a strange bit of reluctance. “Was there something else you had in mind?”

“You just never know.” Matsukawa shrugs, pushes off the bar and the movement catches neon purple over his lush, dark curls. “Not everyone associates feeding and fucking. The bite turns some people off I hear.”

_The bite_—he says it so easily, like it’s nothing, like it’s such the ordinary thing to discuss in casual terms with someone in a dark, bawdy club in Kabukichō’s underground. 

Hanamaki lets his eyes rove, put on a display of leering over the man’s molded chest, his long, lean legs. “Does it turn _you_ off?”

“On the contrary—I rarely get off any other way.”

Once again Hanamaki feels taken aback. Maybe it’s bravado, or maybe it’s something more genuine. But either way, Matsukawa certainly seems to have his priorities in check, even if they are incredibly opposite to most people Hanamaki has ever encountered. 

Beside them, someone lets out a deep, lewd moan and when Hanamaki’s gaze tilts he finds a pair of rouge stained lips trailing up the side of a quivering neck. Her prey bends easily to her will, clearly pleased with the sensation, brave enough to splay broad hands over her narrow waist, but nothing more. 

Hanamaki brings his eyes back to Matsukawa’s, only to find them studying him knowingly. “You’re—different,” he decides, the words a low murmur between them even if he speaks loudly enough to be heard over the music’s pounding bass. 

“Odd, different—” Matsukawa’s mouth pulls into a grin. “Your flattery could use a little improvement.”

But this time, it’s finally Hanamaki’s turn to smirk. “Who said anything about flattery?” 

With a jolt of adrenaline, Hanamaki turns on his heel towards the club’s entrance. If this man, this Matsukawa Issei, likes control then that’s fine with him. But he won’t give up the pretense until later, until they’re tucked away in the walls of his own home. 

Hanamaki makes his way, weaving through swaying groups of slick bodies and tables littered with half-drunk glasses and humans alike. There are eyes following him, peeking out from the shadowed recesses of velvet wallpaper walls. They’re knowing in a way that should make him feel anxious, but instead the lecherous gazes only manage to fuel whatever’s been slowly burning deep inside of him.

Maybe Oikawa had been right—maybe he was just _hungry_. 

Outside the club, the ground is covered in a faint skim of water. The air is chilled but humid, filed with the grey scent of rain and damp moonlight. Hanamaki does his best to maneuver around puddles, careful of his leather soles, eyes drawn to the glisten of colors cast by whirring neon. 

He can feel Matsukawa following behind him, can hear the clip of his steps just slightly out-of-beat with his own over the rain-slick pavers. He can practically taste the smell of him on his tongue now, wafting through the thick air. It’s not his cologne nor his whisky lips, but rather—

“What’s your type?” Hanamaki asks over his shoulder, unable to fight back the impulse. 

“Type O,” Matsukawa replies without missing a beat. He sloshes straight through a puddle that Hanamaki had previously avoided with meticulous care. “Universal donor, baby.”

It’s probably meant to be cheeky, a key piece Hanamaki is learning about Matsukawa’s certain brand of charm. But there’s something else, something about the tone that sets Hanamaki’s teeth on edge. 

“Good for you, _baby_,” he snarks back, probably a bit harsher than necessary. “Or would you rather another endearment? Darling, sweetheart?”

Matsukawa actually grimaces. “Those sound so old fashioned.”

This doesn’t do much to settle Hanamaki, but he does allow a dark little chuckle. “How old do you think I am?”

“Hard to say.” Matsukawa’s caught up to him now, which is impressive considering the rapidly increasing rate of Hanamaki’s gate. “But I was serious when I said you’re gorgeous—don’t look a day over twenty-five.”

It’s strange, Hanamaki thinks, that he’d guess exactly correctly. Of course, he’s learning quickly just how out-of-the-ordinary this man seems to be. Maybe he aught to ask if he’s more than just mortal, maybe one of those third-eye tarot readers Oikawa likes to be friendly with.

“Circle gets the square,” Hanamaki hums, instead of asking such a ridiculous question. 

Matsukawa nods.“You’re a bit older than me then.”

Hanamaki snorts, because _really?_ “You’ve no idea.”

Truly—how had they gone from near rejection, to sexual tension, to this bizarrely easy banter so quickly?

Hanamaki turns a corner, moving under an overpass to reach the train station on the other end. There isn’t much traffic out at this time of night, but there’s the distinct sound of a motor-bike engine down a side street, the coo of scavenging birds lounging in the power lines overhead. The streetlights blink, casting scarlet to shine over the rain-soaked asphalt and Hanamaki makes sure to only step on the pink tinted lines of the painted crosswalk. 

“Funny too,” Matsukawa observes, almost an afterthought. “Pretty, funny—what else should I know about you?”

Hanamaki lets the compliments roll off his back without much thought. “I’d say that’s about enough,” he responds, clipping up onto the curb and pretending that he can’t feel the way Matsukawa’s eyes are drawing over his backside.  
Matsukawa makes a noise in his throat. “How about—you’re favorite position?” he asks then and it’s almost enough to get Hanamaki to stutter-step before he adds, “When _feeding_, I mean.”

Hanamaki has to turn, has to find Matsukawa’s gaze in order to know whether or not he’s done this on purpose or if he’s truly interested. It’s hard to tell, especially when a passing cab’s headlamps whiten out Matsukawa’s profile, but his lips are twitched up to one side and Hanamaki would bet a large percentage of his net-worth that the innuendo had been another reminder about taking control.

Hanamaki tries his best not to let Matsukawa see that it might be working. “Neck,” he answers, snapping his jaw closed. A breeze floats through the corridor of tall buildings surrounding them, chilling over the rips in Hanamaki’s pants, through every little bit of exposed skin not covered by denim or netting. 

“Would’ve never guessed,” Matsukawa deadpans, once again working to match pace.

“You’ve got a nice one.” Hanamaki turns, letting his eyes lay heavy over Matsukawa’s exposed skin. “Nice neck I mean.”

It’s nothing but the truth, though he can sense the way this statement pleases Matsukawa—like he knows now without doubt that’s he’s got Hanamaki, clutched close to him by an invisible chain that he doesn’t plan on letting go of any time soon.

Hanamaki thinks—he thinks he might be okay with that.

“All for you, _darling_,” Matsukawa responds, and the amount of bravado is ordinary to Hanamaki’s ears now, even if he does also detect a bit of longing heat there too.

They’ve finally reached the station, the stairs illuminated dry and white where they’d been protected by the overhanging roof. The moon isn’t quite full, but nearly so. It’s yellowed light creeps all the way down the incline, until it’s met and melded with the artificial glow of fluorescent bulbs and vinyl tile. 

It’s oddly pedestrian, walking into the station with Matsukawa at his side, close enough that they might’ve actually looked to be together. Nearly close enough that if Hanamaki were to reach out, their hands might brush, fingers might interlock. 

He barely manages not to trip down the last step, the random musings suddenly turning that heat in his gut into something a bit more putrid. 

That club caters to those hungry—for food, for skinship or for something _more_, well that’s up to the individual themselves. But Hanamaki has yet to entirely decipher what it is Matsukawa had been seeking there. Even if it seems on the surface level to be quite obvious, he decides, without much more to go on than instinct, that it is actually anything but. 

There’s something about him; broad shoulders sloped with muscle, dark curls just the right side of messy, skin a warm shade, significantly darker than Hanamaki’s own pallor. But there’s something else, not just the scent Hanamaki still can’t quite seem to pick out, but the way he carries himself, the way those lips curve over sharp canines—

“How many stops?” Matsukawa murmurs, breaking the bout of silence that had settled between them. They’re stood still on the platform, alone save for a few people making their way home from the closing-shift and a group of university students buried in their glowing phone screens. 

“Uh—five from here, no transfers,” Hanamaki answers without really thinking, mind still a little bit stuck on other things. 

Matsukawa is watching him, he can feel those eyes boring into the side of his face, but he doesn’t give up anything else. Already he feels as though Matsukawa has gained the upper hand, whether he realizes it or not, but Hanamaki isn’t willing to let him take all of the control between them. 

It’s in his nature, he supposes. 

“I’ll just follow you,” Matsukawa says with a little nod and Hanamaki is glad at least he can control this, can control where they are headed. The feel of his own home beneath his feet, his own threshold to step across. 

Maybe he aught to tell Oikawa and Iwaizumi that he’s left. Or—maybe not. 

The train rumbles into the station, the air rushing with it like a pleasant breeze. Not a soul is waiting to disembark when the doors whoosh open and Hanamaki hesitates before Matsukawa makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, guiding him forward and towards an open bench seat. Instead of taking the seat next to him, Matsukawa does something much more surprising than anything he’s done so far—he maneuvers his body to stand directly in front of Hanamaki, leaning to grab onto a hand hold, caging Hanamaki in with just his looming presence above. 

It’s bizarre, a posturing move certainly, but something Hanamaki has never been on the receiving end of before. Of course, his meals usually aren’t kept in 190 cm containers with molten brown eyes sharp enough to tear directly through his brittle ribcage. 

Matsukawa doesn’t comment, doesn’t say anything at all, but it’s clear in the look he sends Hanamaki that he’s pleased with whatever expression Hanamaki’s let come across his features. 

It’s annoying, but also—there is no way in _hell_ that Hanamaki is actually growing hard, sitting here on this ratty train seat with a near stranger hanging over him, body swaying easily with the train’s bustling movements. 

He shifts, just a little, hoping that Matsukawa won’t notice. But luck doesn’t seem to be on his side tonight—Matsukawa’s nose twitches, Hanamaki can actually _see_ it, and his lips pull just enough to be considered lecherous without downright leering. 

It’s excruciating, the length between each stop. Time feels like molasses, dark and inescapable, wrapping around them until all Hanamaki can see is the glow of Matsukawa’s dark gaze. He can just barely hear the woman’s tinny voice at each stop, announcing the station name first in Japanese, then in English too, but it’s muffled through whatever cotton has since invaded his ears. 

When they finally, _finally_ reach their stop Hanamaki’s entire body is on edge—his knuckles ache with how tightly he’s fisted his fingers, his knees feel stiff and his head is starting to throb. But mostly he just feels horrendously aroused and it has everything to do with the way Matsukawa hasn’t allowed their gaze’s to slip from one another during the entire trip.

It’s almost too much—but Hanamaki is starting to think maybe he knows just what it was that Matsukawa had been searching for tonight in that club. 

They disembark together, Matsukawa moving at the last second to allow Hanamaki room to rise and stumble out onto the waiting platform. This one is empty, so empty it feels almost as though he’s stepped through some other portal into another dimension. Matsukawa walks two paces behind him, their steps echoing off the tiled walls as they amble through the gates towards the escalator. As they’re brought up to the surface Hanamaki doesn’t move a single muscle, even as he feels Matsukawa’s gaze on him, a prickle along the vulnerable skin of his nape. 

When they make it back out into Tokyo’s witching-hour nighttime, the rain has picked back up into something just a bit heavier than a drizzle. For any ordinary being, the cold misty precipitation would have chilled straight to the bone, but Hanamaki finds it a salve on his rice-paper skin that feels as though it had nearly been burned through on the train ride here. 

“It’s not far,” Hanamaki says in some small reassurance. It’s not as though Matsukawa makes a fuss, but the way his shoulders stiffen just barely tells Hanamaki that perhaps he’s not the biggest fan of getting caught in the rain.

It’s the truth, the high-rise apartment he shares with Oikawa and Iwaizumi is only two blocks over from the station, a key selling point and a reason for the atrocious mortgage. Not that it really matters for them, but Hanamaki wonders if Matsukawa will comment on the neighborhood, the pristine landscaping, or the slick golden door handles when they finally push into the lobby and out of the midnight chill. 

He doesn’t.

The elevator is of sleek, modern design—meaning it’s so fast Hanamaki barely has to spend more than a few seconds trying not to sink into Matsukawa’s warm presence beside him. The scent from earlier seems to have bloomed exponentially. Maybe it’s because now they are well and truly alone, the club’s myriad of sounds and smells far behind them, or maybe it’s because Hanamaki is starting to allow himself to slip just a little bit deeper—

“Need help—?”

They’re at the front door now, Hanamaki’s mind still floating off somewhere in the elevator’s cavernous shaft it seems. He’s stood there, key in hand, fingers white-knuckle tight as he stares at the lock as if it should very well be able to open itself at his command. 

“Uh—no,” Hanamaki responds, frowning at himself as he unlocks the door with as much ease as ever. 

He lets Matsukawa in, even if a tiny voice of primal instinct in the back of his mind warns him against it. There’s a heavy, woody scent that follows, something earthen and alive and Hanamaki knows he’d smelled it earlier at the club too, but now it feels all the more potent. 

They leave their shoes in the genkan because even if this is a hook-up, they don’t have to act like animals. Hanamaki opts to leave the lights off, considering the front curtains have been left open, the golden light of the moon more than enough illumination. 

“Nice place. Not exactly what I pictured,” Matsukawa comments, eyes roving over the living room and into the adjoining dining room, almost as though he’s expecting something to jump out at him from the shadows. 

“What were you expecting?” Hanamaki jokes. “Old world victorian mansion covered in candles and coffins?”

“Something like that,” Matsukawa just shrugs, not entirely phased it seems. “You live here alone?”

“I’ve got roommates. They’re not home.”

“Good. I like things to get a little bit—_loud_.”

There’d been many clues to make Hanamaki guess at what Matsukawa’s end goal here actually was, but now that it’s been confirmed so brazenly, he feels as though things can finally _start_. Feeding and sex aren’t mutually exclusive, Oikawa is correct in that. _However_—

On impulse Hanamaki leans in but before his lips can land, Matsukawa’s threading fingers into the short-clipped hair at the back of his head. The rough touch sends a shiver straight through Hanamaki, those fingers tightening and curving Hanamaki’s neck in such a pretty arch that for a split second he actually thinks Matsukawa is going to be the one to bite _him_. 

“_Shit_,” Hanamaki breathes out when a set of plush lips crawl their way from the hollow of his neck straight up to his jaw. Silk sparks out over his skin, a rush of heady energy coursing down, down, down all the way to his cock trapped beneath provocative tights and too-tight jeans. 

With his head angled in such a way, Hanamaki’s hands instinctually reach out to grab ahold of Matsukawa’s shirt, the fabric slick and warm in his grasp. When Matsukawa starts nosing at his ear, breath puffing out over the shell, Hanamaki pulls away enough to cross their heavy-lidded gazes.

“Y-you were right earlier, I don’t normally do this,” he mumbles out, probably ruining the mood entirely. 

However, Matsukawa doesn’t immediately release his hold. Instead smirking into Hanamaki’s cheek. “You don’t say?”

Hanamaki shudders, not entirely sure why. “That—that club wasn’t exactly my scene.”

“Your _scene?_” Matsukawa actually snorts this time, tugging Hanamaki by his hair until they’re facing one another again. “Y’know you never did tell me how old you actually are.”

At this, Hanamaki finally seems to reset. He glares, shaking his head enough that Matsukawa’s grip loosens. “Does it matter?”

In this light, with nothing more than moon glow washing bright yellow rays through the living room’s floor to ceiling windows, Matsukawa looks a little bigger, a little scruffier than he did before, his lips pleasantly tugged and his teeth shining bright and sharp.

“You said you don’t normally do this,” Matsukawa murmurs into the hot air between them. “But—here we are.”

Hanamaki swallows, allows his muscles to slacken just enough that he can feel all of Matsukawa’s starting to tighten up. “Here we are,” he repeats, low and pointed. 

“We don’t have to—” Matsukawa shrugs, something flashing through his eyes like he’s suddenly come to some realization. “Y’know, if you just want to feed I’m cool with that.”

Hanamaki feels himself frowning.

“No, no. I want—I _want_ _to_.”

“Want to?”

“_Fuck_.” Hanamaki clicks his tongue, feels his cheeks trying to form a blush even though the last time he fed on anything more substantial than a cocktail was several days ago at this point. “I mean—I want you to fuck _me_.”

“Ah,” Matsukawa says, almost as though the sound had fallen straight from his open mouth. He regards Hanamaki for a moment before adding, “Yeah, okay we’re gonna need to take this somewhere more comfortable.”

He tugs a little at Hanamaki’s waist, almost an impatient gesture. It’s cute and Hanamaki wonders if Matsukawa really knows he’s doing it at all, pawing at him like that. 

“Sorry, I don’t _actually_ have a bed,” Hanamaki explains, grinning a little sheepishly. “No need, y’know?”

Matsukawa’s eyes flicker past him deeper into the apartment. “Couch?”

“Perfect,” Hanamaki agrees before suddenly there are two powerful arms sweeping around him, lifting and twisting his body like it weighs nothing at all. “H-hey, what are you—“

“You’re lighter than you look,” Matsukawa chuckles, having the audacity to pat firmly over Hanamaki’s ass.

This is impossibly undignified, being carried like cargo over the man’s massively broad shoulder. But also—the slowly blossoming arousal deep in Hanamaki’s gut is starting to pick up traction, petals unfolding in an uncontrollable fast forward flash. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Hanamaki grunts, studying Matsukawa’s long, long legs and trying not to think about all the bits of sinew he can feel bulging from Matsukawa’s arms. The strength is yet against something surprising, almost comparable to that of his _own_. “So, you definitely aren’t a—”

“Definitely not,” Matsukawa answers firmly before he can even get the rest of the question out. “Is it so surprising that I work out?”

They’ve reached the couch now, but Matsukawa hesitates a moment before putting Hanamaki down. He hangs there, feeling like a piece of meat on a hook until Matsukawa tugs him off his shoulder as easily as he hoisted him up there. When they’re facing one another again, he’s met with an expectant look. 

Matsukawa doesn’t take his hand off his ass. 

“No,” Hanamaki relents, not really bothered by the possessive touch like he might aught to be. “But it is fucking hot.”

This praise seems to please Matsukawa, the man’s eyes averting to the smattering of rips down Hanamaki’s pants. “You have lube? Condoms?”

“Drawer there,” Hanamaki gestures, allowing himself to slump down onto the soft cushions of their large sectional couch. The black leather feels nice and cool against his bizarrely flushed skin. “Uh—d’you have like a safe word?”

The question is out of his mouth before he can think straight, still stuck staring at Matsukawa’s shoulders and the sweet little curve between his neck and trapezius. He’s been so blinded by arousal that he’d nearly forgotten about the dull ache in his jaw. 

“Wow, how wild do you think this is gonna get?” Matsukawa asks, tone entirely dead.

“I—I mean,” Hanamaki stumbles, sits up a bit straighter. “For when I bite you.”

Here in the living room, the moon’s light reaches a bit farther. It claws through the glass, creeping over the wine-dyed Persian rug, up over the dark shadows of Matsukawa’s lean legs, his narrow waist, shading his broad shoulders until it finds a home nestled against the smooth plains of his neck, golden and inviting. 

“Oh—hm,” Matsukawa thinks, looking far too attractive with such a wicked expression. “_Red_ then I guess?”

He pulls out the drawer, thumbing through the contents until he can pluck out what they need. It’s fully stocked, not exactly something Hanamaki likes to dwell on considering he’s not the one who’s been keeping it that way. Matsukawa grins, a soft sound rumbling in his chest as he maneuvers to sit next to Hanamaki, thigh-to-thigh. 

“Okay, it’s not _that_ clever.” Hanamaki cocks his head, looking up at Matsukawa with a forced glare. “You can stop smirking.”

“I think it’s pretty clever,” Matsukawa hums. “Don’t think I’m gonna need it though—after all, I’m asking for it, aren't’ I?”

“I don’t usually bite anyone _not_ asking for it.” 

“You never know these days.” 

Hanamaki figures he’s probably right, but even with his predatory instincts he is certain he wouldn’t be able to take someone by force like that. It’s just not something he’s wired for, being overly ruthless or lustful. But with the way Matsukawa is eyeing him, something definitely hungry in those blown dark pupils, Hanamaki is beginning to think maybe he can let loose just a little bit more than usual here.

Matsukawa fiddles with the bottle of lube, turning it this way and that and admiring the gem-blue plastic as it very nearly glows in the living room’s dim shadows. “So, you don’t normally do this—sex or sucking blood?”

Hanamaki feels something hitch in his throat, his body melting a little bit more into the couch with Matsukawa’s blunt wording. “Both,” he admits. 

“Hm.” Matsukawa considers him, eyes glinting up and down a few times like he’s drawing some type of conclusion simply by ogling. “Okay, we can take it easy.”

This makes Hanamaki frown, his teeth feeling a little sharper against his upper lip. “I’m not a fucking virgin,” he says, defensive. “It’s just been a while—on both accounts.”

Matsukawa doesn’t seem phased. “Can I ask why?”

He shrugs. “I’m a homebody. Bagged blood is a pretty great modern convenience.” 

“Modern convenience,” Matsukawa snorts. “I’m guessing you’re at least a few decades old then.”

He’s still fiddling with the bottle in his hands, spinning it around between his fingers. Hanamaki’s eyes fall to those hands, veins prominent and skin a pleasant golden hue. He imagines just what those fingers might feel like running up his bare flesh, over the dip of his bones, all the way to his—

Okay. He’s had about enough of all this talk.

Hanamaki takes the initiative to climb fully into Matsukawa’s lap, straddling him and forcing the entirety of the man’s attention to one thing and one thing only. “Fuck me well enough and maybe you’ll find out,” Hanamaki purrs, making a point of grinding down where he can feel the shape of Matsukawa beneath him.

This seems to be just the thing to push things along, Matsukawa’s hands moving to grip at the small of his waist, pressing firmly in against the small bit of plush there. “You worry about the biting and I’ll worry about the fucking,” he says, staring hard up through a thick shadow of lashes and desire. 

Hanamaki runs a pink tongue over the edge of his teeth, wetting them to shine. “You got a kink or something?”

“You could say that.” Matsukawa leans in, nosing back against Hanamaki’s neck and breathing him in. “Shit, you’re pretty.”

It’s not exactly what Hanamaki expects him to say, but it pulls a shiver straight down his spine just the same. Matsukawa presses a kiss against his skin, trailing warm lips up under Hanamaki’s jaw until their mouths are only a few centimeters apart. 

“You hungry?” Matsukawa murmurs, a thick brow quirking even as his voice sounds far more gone than it had just a few seconds before. 

Hanamaki shudders, finally dragging his lips over Matsukawa’s own in lieu of answering. Matsukawa’s mouth is warm, nearly molten as he dives forward into the touch. Something close to a snarl works its way up through his lungs, deep and rumbling through them both at every juncture where their bodies are melded together. 

It’s rough, but Hanamaki doesn’t really mind—he can feel his own desire rising to match Matsukawa’s own and the answer to his previous question is beginning to rapidly make itself known. 

Hanamaki feels almost—_ravenous_.

Scenting the air, Hanamaki splays his tongue flat over Matsukawa’s swollen bottom lip. That scent from earlier is back, warm and heady, wafting through his mind and tugging at something familiar still hidden beneath the webby sinew of his brain. But whatever it is, Hanamaki has decided emphatically that he _likes_ it. 

Matsukawa’s hands dip, grabbing his ass through a painted layer of denim. There’s a slit placed high up on the underside of his thigh and Matsukawa’s fingers don’t hesitate to catch over his exposed skin, toying with the delicate tights that are still hugging his legs. 

“These are really fucking sexy,” Matsukawa says, lips sticking against Hanamaki’s chin. “But they have got to go.”

Hanamaki nods through the haze, reveling in the hot touch of Matsukawa’s skin against his own. “Go ahead—m’not attached to them.” 

Taking the permission without hesitation, Matsukawa tugs him easily out of his lap, reversing their positions so that with a little leverage he’s got Hanamaki’s jeans tugged down to his ankles before Hanamaki can even blink. 

Matsukawa’s kneeling between his legs now, knees splayed against the rug and cock visibly hard in his own pants. But for the moment he doesn’t seem too concerned about that, instead working those jeans off in full only to get thrown somewhere behind. He runs his palms up Hanamaki’s cocked legs, bare save for where the netted fabric presses fleshy swells from his crystal white skin. 

He squeezes the pads of his fingers into Hanamaki’s thighs, thumbs kneading against the muscle there and if Hanamaki’s ears hadn’t been filled with the sound of his own moan, he might’ve heard something akin to a growl rise up from the other man’s throat. 

“You’re not—” Matsukawa seems to be choking, just a bit, on his own words. “You’re not wearing underwear.” 

Hanamaki hums, sinking down just a bit further against the couch cushions. “It’s supposed to be provocative.” 

Matsukawa blinks, once, twice. “Fuck,” he grunts. “You—you don’t know what that’s doing to me.”

Like a rush of blood to the surface, Hanamaki feels something hot and dangerous come over him. Matsukawa’s eyes are locked in place, cheeks ruddy and mouth parted and Hanamaki has never felt more desired in his long, long life. 

So, who can blame him for wanting to take advantage of that?

Hanamaki dips his thumb under the band hugging his waist, just over his belly button, plucking the elastic fabric enough that when he lets go it’s with a sharp little snap against his stomach. “Provoking you, I assume?” he murmurs, tongue playing idling over his left canine. 

“_Fuck_,” Matsukawa says again, but this time it’s definitely accompanied by a snarl. “C’mere.”

Hanamaki’s throat closes around a laugh, cut short only when he’s tugged forward until his knees are hooked over Matsukawa’s shoulders. The sight of messy curls draws Hanamaki’s heavy-lidded gaze down to the man nestled between his thighs, before he feels an impossibly warm, wet tongue digging into the slit of his oh-so exposed cock.

Air hisses out from Hanamaki’s lips, the first bit of real, tangible pleasure coursing through him so fast he can’t help his fangs from clicking fully into place. They hang over his slick bottom lip, mouth parted around a silent moan as Matsukawa works his cock from beneath the tights, threads pulling and popping like sliced heartstrings. 

He’s only half-hard, but the feel of Matsukawa’s tongue against him has him shivering in oversensitivity already. The drink he’d sipped at the club would be just enough to keep him in a state of near-arousal, but no where near enough to get him fully hard, fully able to appreciate Matsukawa’s attentions.

The tights are a lost cause at this point, still hugging his waist, but Matsukawa’s fingers are making quick work in ripping away the bits down his thighs and the swell of his ass. If Hanamaki tilts his head enough he can just make out the pinkish criss-crossing indentations the fish nets left in their too-tight wake. The marks bloom over his pale skin with ease and he wonders what his flesh will look like in the morning, after Matsukawa’s gripped him just a bit tighter than he is now. 

“I-I can’t get any harder,” Hanamaki mumbles out, his tongue feeling a bit saturated in his mouth.

Matsukawa looks up, brushing mussed bangs from his forehead and massaging fingers gently at the base of Hanamaki’s semi-erection. “Normally I would feel offended by that statement.”

Hanamaki nearly whines, especially when Matsukawa’s wet lips drag over the edge of his cock. “I need to feed,” he explains, feeling just the slightest bit of embarrassment flushing over him.

“Mm,” Matsukawa hums, licking away a single bead of pre-cum from Hanamaki’s slit. “Okay, are you going to ask nicely?”

At this, Hanamaki stills, staring down at him. It’s not a question that’s ever been asked of him before, especially not by someone between his legs with his cock in their mouth.

“Can I—” he swallows. “Can I sit in your lap please?”

Matsukawa gives him the most indulgent smile, massaging his hands along the underside of his thighs. “Whatever you want, _darling_.” 

Hanamaki feels a little weak, maybe from the anticipation or the hunger or maybe something else altogether. He lifts his legs up, allowing Matsukawa to stand and maneuver back to the couch. When he’s seated again, Hanamaki crawls slowly into his lap, the tights catching over the buckle of Matsukawa’s belt, the still untouched hardness hidden there.

Matsukawa’s hands are so hot against Hanamaki’s waist that it forces goosebumps over his skin, so hot even through the diaphanous material of his dark shirt. He aught to feel more exposed with his jeans now flung to the floor forgotten, but Hanamaki can’t help but enjoy the way Matsukawa subtly watches the way his cock drags pearly pre-cum over his own silky top with every little movement. 

“You—you’ve done this before, right?” Hanamaki asks, voice much smaller than he’d intended.

Matsukawa nods, watches him with a careful expression. “Yeah,” he says. “I know what to expect.”

Out of habit Hanamaki tests the sharpness of his fangs against his tongue. “Good.”

Matsukawa squeezes his hip. “Are _you_ good?”

“Yeah—yeah I’m good. Just have to ask, y’know?” he says.

Matsukawa nods again, squeezes just bit harder. “I know.”

Somehow things had dipped into something much much softer than a few seconds ago—which Hanamaki is okay with, feeding being somewhat of a delicate topic. But he’s still half-hard, cock tingling with neediness.

Hanamaki leans forward, pressing his lips first to Matsukawa’s mouth in a gentle touch, before trailing them down over the sharp edge of his jaw, down further until he’s able to catch the delicious beating pulse throbbing beneath the skin of his neck.

Matsukawa takes the cue, tilting his head back so that his neck is more readily exposed. Hanamaki can smell the blood coursing through his veins, his throat burning with a hunger that now grips him tighter, something he can’t repress even if he wanted to at this point. 

It’s dangerous, he knows, that fine line between carnal and control. But—so does Matsukawa it seems.

Hands grip steadily against his hips, holding him down over Matsukawa’s lap and Hanamaki has to stifle a groan. Between the feel of Matsukawa’s cock threatening to grind up into him and that molten artery throbbing under his tongue—it’s so much more intoxicating than any alcohol, any drug, any_thing_ in this world. 

Outside, a cloak of slow moving clouds cuts across the moon, sending the room into thick grey darkness. Hanamaki can just make out the glint of Matsukawa’s eyes watching him. 

His ears pick up the tick of the antique clock down the hall, the low steady pump of lungs dragging in air, the rush of wind through the damp, midnight mist.

Hanamaki leans in again, lavs his tongue over the supple, unblemished skin of Matsukawa’s neck. His saliva shines in the darkness, the sensation forcing a shiver up through Matsukawa’s body straight into Hanamaki’s own.

Instinct urges him to go fast, bite hard, suck every last bit of life from the warm body beneath him. But it’s something else, something even more powerful, that holds that feeling at bay.

His teeth brush over Matsukawa’s neck, a warning, before sinking slow and steady into the tender flesh. Hanamaki is immediately assaulted with the warm, iron taste of blood flowing over his tongue. He pricks at the wound, forcing the blood out without being too rough, latches his mouth around the swelling flesh and drinks it all down. 

Matsukawa makes a sound, a little far off, but it’s undeniably a moan rumbling up from his chest. The noise pleases Hanamaki, his tongue working to catch a few stray rivulets of blood, licking into the punctures and drawing a few more groans vibrating through the throat he’s attached himself to. 

The taste is heady, his cock swelling without much extra coaxing. Matsukawa’’s fingers twitch in their hold over his hipbones, one of his hands trailing mindlessly down to grope at a plush cheek, massaging the shredded tights over Hanamaki’s ass. 

“F-fuck—s’good,” Hanamaki mutters out, neurons firing like crazy as he continues to suck, to nibble. Blood rushes down his throat, coating it in luxurious velvet and settling into his stomach, a hot pleasant buzz. 

Hanamaki has to force himself to pull back; he’s reached a point of pleasant intoxication, not too far gone that he’s feeling sloppily drunk, just enough to feel light and much warmer than usual. He licks over the wound on Matsukawa’s neck, already bruising a bit purple around the entry points.

He feels content, almost as though he might actually be able to fall asleep nested in Matsukawa’s lap, but it seems the man beneath him has another idea—and rightfully so.

“Holy shit,” Matsukawa breathes, turning his head to catch Hanamaki’s wobbly lips between his own. A tongue comes out to catch on the residual blood coating Hanamaki’s own, sucking it off and licking in deeper. Matsukawa tastes himself, kisses Hanamaki with abandon, slippery and messy and it’s so, so very nice.

Hanamaki’s eyes open when Matsukawa pulls back, his gaze tracking drops of ruby blood crawling slowly down the length of Matsukawa’s neck, drizzling into his collarbones and staining the silk of his pretty shirt. 

Before Hanamaki can formulate any words Matsukawa’s got a set of slicked up fingers pressed against his exposed hole, punching a gasp straight out of Hanamaki’s useless lungs. 

“S’okay?” Matsukawa slurs and for the first time since the bite, Hanamaki realizes just how far gone the other man is as well. 

Hanamaki nods, shivering at Matsukawa’s tentative touch, his reverent gaze as he awaits Hanamaki’s answer before moving another inch. “Y-yeah, feels—_good_.”

Matsukawa manages a grin at that before finally he’s pressing his fingers in, two in one go, and stretching Hanamaki just how he needs. It’s slick and warm, those fingers so much hotter than Hanamaki’s body, even with his appetite sated and the newly bit of pink rising on his cheeks. He can only imagine what it will feel like to sink onto the man’s _cock_. 

Hanamaki grinds down, shaking himself as much as he can out of his cloudy, blood-drunk headspace to start fumbling over the waist of Matsukawa’s jeans. He has to wiggle back a bit, forcing Matsukawa’s angle to change, but it’s worth it when the pad of his middle finger brushes firmly over his prostate. 

“Fuck,” Hanamaki hisses out, fingers squeezing at the impossibly tight buckle at Matsukawa’s waist. Impatient, he divides his energy between ripping open Matsukawa’s pants and grinding back on his fingers, only stopping when Matsukawa himself pushes in deeper, finding his prostate again without so much hesitation. 

Hanamaki’s skin tingles where it’s attached at the muscle and bone, his body feeling nearly weightless as Matsukawa works him open on his thick, long fingers. It takes a bit more maneuvering, but Hanamaki’s finally got Matsukawa’s pants down far enough that he can reach into the black briefs and tug at his cock, already sticky with pre-cum.

It’s big, possibly bigger than Hanamaki had been expecting, but the realization doesn’t do anything other than send his own cock throbbing even harder, red and swollen from the nectar Hanamaki can still taste on his tongue, staining over his teeth and lips. 

“I—I’m ready,” Hanamaki manages to grunt out around a moan as Matsukawa massages particularly firmly. 

Matsukawa nods, leans forward to catch his tongue over Hanamaki’s bottom lip, eyes glinting dark as the moonlight starts to slowly trickle back in. There’s something about the action, accompanied by a low snarl in the back of Matsukawa’s throat, that reminds Hanamaki of an animal—wild-eyed and untamed. 

His nose itches with scent, so familiar yet so foreign—the sensation preys on the tattered edges of his sanity, blurring alongside his arousal until all he can associate the warm, wooden scent with is the desperate need for release.

Amidst Hanamaki’s internal struggle, Matsukawa tugs his fingers loose to instead search for the nearly forgotten condom. Hanamaki thinks at this rate he might’ve told Matsukawa to fuck him raw, but it seems the other man has a few more of his wits about him. 

Teeth, nearly as sharp as Hanamaki’s own, rip into the packet with practiced ease, the tearing sound of foil slicing into Hanamaki’s sensitive ears. They’re so close he can practically taste it on his tongue—

Unable to quite resist, Hanamaki leans forward as Matsukawa’s busy tugging the condom down his throbbing length. He presses his lips over the stains left behind on Matsukawa’s neck, tonguing at the residual bit of blood already set to drying over his skin. 

Matsukawa groans when Hanamaki sticks the point of his tongue into the wound he’d left behind, searching for any last bit of nourishment. But his mouth pops free when Matsukawa’s cock nudges against him, pressing upwards with just enough pressure to slide the head in with an obscenely slick sound.

Hanamaki feels dazed, the drunken sensation mixing with the ache of Matsukawa’s cock stretching him open is almost too much for his body to process. He can’t remember the last time he’d felt so high from just a bit of mortal blood—but maybe it’s not just the blood that’s making him feel so far-away, maybe it’s not just the desperate desire for pleasure, _maybe—_

Suddenly there are teeth biting into the meat of Hanamaki’s shoulder, far harder than he could’ve ever been prepared for. His eyes flash wide, neck swiveling enough to catch the edge of Matsukawa’s features, lost in pleasure as he nibbles at the bruising teeth marks he’s laced into Hanamaki’s delicate flesh. 

Hanamaki can’t decide whether to push Matsukawa away or pull him closer, the sensation so overwhelming he can’t help his body from sinking down in one fluid go until he’s seated, trembling around Matsukawa’s cock. 

“Y-you bit me,” Hanamaki stumbles out through loose lips.

Matsukawa tilts his gaze back up, licking along his prominent canines. His eyes are far darker than before, pupils blown wide. He looks absolutely—_feral_. 

“You liked it,” Matsukawa responds, voice gravelly and low and Hanamaki finds that he has no room for argument. 

But he’s never had anyone bite _him_ before. Never because—what kind of mortal would be foolish enough?

There are hands on his hips then, Matsukawa rocking up in to him without hesitation. It cuts straight through Hanamaki, right into his core, tearing through rotted organs and brittle bones straight through the center where Matsukawa’s blood pumps slowly but surely _south_. 

Hanamaki thinks, embarrassingly enough, that he’s not going to be able to last much longer.

In a position such as this, Hanamaki is usually the one left to do most of the work. But Matsukawa guides his body with ease, pressing into him at just the right angle to have Hanamaki moaning on each thrust. His cock is left to rub against the silky material of Matsukawa’s shirt, the sensation enough to make him a dribbling, shining mess without much effort. 

“So gorgeous,” Matsukawa growls in his ear, pulling Hanamaki’s body impossibly close to his own. His hands grip into the flesh of Hanamaki’s ass, tugging and plucking at the strands of his dismembered tights. He holds him in such a way—so possessive—it’s got Hanamaki melting into each strong touch. 

“M’not gonna last,” Hanamaki admits through grit teeth. His fangs hang over his lower lip, sorry and forgotten as he chases his orgasm, trying desperately to keep up with Matsukawa’s inhuman pace. 

Hips slam into him, sure to leave pretty purple bruises in their wake, and Matsukawa pants into his ear, warm and damp. “Me too—feel so, _so_ good,” he grumbles, sounding more and more lost by the second. “You’re so good. You’re—_all mine_.”

The possessive snarl should make Hanamaki pause, but instead it sends a wave of shivers through his body, thighs quivering as the squeeze against Matsukawa’s stomach. Hanamaki tilts his gaze to study Matsukawa, to respond with something in kind but—

Eyes. Claws. Teeth. 

Hanamaki’s muscles give out, his body slumping fully into Matsukawa’s hold. The man’s pupils have gone from full dilation to narrow slits, gold haloing the edges. The nails digging into the plush of Hanamaki’s skin are sharp slate knives. Those canines elongated—reminiscent of fangs, but—

They’re not fangs.

Not exactly.

Hanamaki can’t help himself from grinding down on Matsukawa’s cock when the realization hits him full force. “Y-you’re—“

Those slitted eyes cut to him, fully gone to the sensation of Hanamaki’s tight body. “Can’t believe you didn’t notice sooner,” Matsukawa hisses out. “Thought maybe it was just—a kink of yours or something.”

Holy shit—holy _fucking_—

“What the fuck?” Hanamaki manages, his own voice sounding dazed and far off to his ears. His cock is so hard, so wet, bobbing between them with every little movement—it’s nearly _painful_.

“Most—most don’t wanna bite people like me,” Matsukawa explains, still pistoning in and out with little finesse at this point. “M’not full blood, but still usually it’s more—more obvious.” 

Hanamaki sucks against his teeth, eyes clenching as Matsukawa hits his prostate dead-on. “_Obvious_—”

“But you’re—” Matsukawa says and this time he leans in, slows his hips down just a fraction, catches Hanamaki’s lips with his own. “You’re _different._” 

It’s not exactly criminal, nor even unheard of. But it certainly is considered—_taboo_. 

But—Hanamaki thinks maybe he likes taboo. 

All it takes is Matsukawa’s cock grinding into him, his hands firmly holding Hanamaki down against his hips to take his length in fully. All it takes is that mouth pressed oh so gently against his own, fangs forgotten. That’s it—that’s all. 

With a moan ripped straight from his throat he’s gone, gone—_gone_. 

Matsukawa comes a moment later, far softer than Hanamaki’s guttural sounds. He nuzzles into Hanamaki’s neck, breathing him in, pressing kisses against the swelling flesh of the bite he’d left behind. 

Hanamaki feels—

He doesn't know exactly _how_ he feels. 

“M’gonna pull out,” Matsukawa warns a second before he tugs Hanamaki up. His entire body is lax with the comedown, brain a mix of fog and clotted blood. He lets Matsukawa maneuver him against the soft couch cushions, blinking as his eyes find the puncture wounds on Matsukawa’s neck through the moonlit darkness.

Hanamaki opens his mouth to speak, to say something, anything—but then the sound of the lock flicking open morphs his words into nothing more than a hot-blooded curse.

The hall lights flick on, shortly followed by the sounds of unsteady footsteps and someone’s back slamming into the wall. Beside him, Matsukawa has enough foresight to tug at the chenille throw-blanket, covering the bare bits just in time for a set of shadows to round the corner.

Hanamaki watches with tired eyes as Iwaizumi presses Oikawa again the wall, his knee slotting easily between spread thighs. They’re making out, hard and fast, and by the faint copper tinge in the air—their fangs are poised and ready. 

There’s a moment where nothing is heard other than the slick sound of mouths and tongues moving together, but then—

“What’s—do you smell that, Hajime?” Oikawa asks, pulling away from Iwaizumi’s firm kiss and turning his nose up.

It takes all of two seconds for Oikawa’s sharp eyes to flick over Iwaizumi’s shoulder, another few seconds for them to start widening into something round and moon-like. “Oh, Makki—hello,” he squeaks out, tugging himself out of Iwaizumi’s grip.

“Hey,” Hanamaki says, even if he feels like he might fall asleep at any given time. His limbs are heavy, but the sated feeling in his stomach is a pleasant heat. “What’s up?”

Oikawa squints. “Does it—does it smell like dog in here to you?”

“Nope,” Hanamaki responds easily, emphasizing the ‘p’ with a pop of his red stained lips. 

Both Iwaizumi and Oikawa regard him for a moment, clearly taken aback by his behavior, before their gazes flick curiously to the man still lounging next to him. 

Whatever had come over Matsukawa before has since dissolved, his eyes back to their normal state, nails no longer blade-sharp and teeth plainly white and perfectly straight. He flicks his fingers in a casual little wave. “Hey, you must be the roommates.”

“Uh—yeah,” Iwaizumi says while Oikawa returns Matsukawa’s wave a little hesitantly.

If Hanamaki weren’t so out-of-it he would probably be on the floor by now, laughing his ass off. Serves them right—this had been _their_ idea from the start, hadn’t it?

“We’ll just—leave you to it then,” Oikawa says, tugging at Iwaizumi’s wrist, nose still very much twitching.

When they’ve disappeared down the hall, Hanamaki flops back against the couch cushions. The blanket’s soft threads tickle over his bare skin, and he winces at how utterly sensitive he still is. 

“Very charming,” Matsukawa hums with that familiar smirk.

Hanamaki shrugs as best he can in his slumped position. “Eh—they’re not usually that awkward.”

“You guys pretty close?”

“We’ve been together for a long time. As utterly annoying as Oikawa can be—_family_ might actually be the best term for us.”

Matsukawa’s brow quirks. “Like a coven?”

“Sure, if you wanna be old fashioned about it,” Hanamaki wiggles his toes, the tights bunching over his feet. “But it’s not like we’ve got a blood oath or some shit—just shared property rights.”

Matsukawa’s gaze flits to the hallway. “But aren’t they like—together-together?”

Hanamaki thinks about the years and years of emotional repression he watched the two of them go through, can practically feel the frustration curling back into his bones. 

“They weren’t always,” he says in lieu of explaining all the complexities. 

“Still—what’s it like being a third wheel for all of eternity?”

Hanamaki chokes a little, turning to face Matsukawa with an incredulous look. _That_ he certainly hadn’t been expecting, but the smug look on the man’s face isn’t exactly surprising at this point.

“Wow, I was gonna ask if you wanted to stay over, y’know order you breakfast and everything,” Hanamaki grumbles, trying his best not to visibly pout with his fangs still very much _out_. “But now I’m feeling mean.”

“Mean,” Matsukawa snorts, head shaking. “I don’t think you could ever be.”

“Oh no?” Hanamaki kicks out with his foot, catching the meat of Matsukawa’s bare thigh. “Next time I’ll show you just how _mean_ I can be—clearly I went too easy on you.”

Matsukawa’s gaze softens. “Next time?”

“I mean—” Hanamaki swallows down absolutely nothing. “If you want?”

“You’re gorgeous and your bite was fucking incredible. Of course I want,” comes Matsukawa’s reply, like there’s really no question about it. “Besides, you didn’t mind—_you_ _know_.”

He makes a sweeping gesture over his entire body and Hanamaki can’t help but feel laughter bubble up in his chest at the way he waggles his brows. He doesn’t have to say anything further for Hanamaki to know exactly what it is that he means anyways.

“No I—” Hanamaki hesitates, thinks over exactly what it is that he might be admitting to, and then decides that he really doesn’t give a shit at this point. “I don’t mind. Actually—I think it’s kind of _hot_.”

This seems to please Matsukawa immensely, grin turning into something full and genuine. He reaches out to tug playfully at Hanamaki’s ankle. “Glad we’re on the same page,” he says, smile only growing as he adds with a broad wink, “_Makki_.”

Hanamaki lets his features grow as dark as he can possibly get them. “Want me to show you just how mean I can be _right now,_ Issei?”

“I can go again anytime,” Matsukawa explains shamelessly. “I’ve got a wicked refractory period, darling.”

Hanamaki smiles, licks out over a sharp fang. “Well—I _did_ work up quite an appetite.”

Head tilting, Matsukawa exposes his neck—this time the opposite side, lean, soft and ready for the taking. “Ready for another taste?” he asks, eyes glinting dark once more. 

Well, Hanamaki thinks with a hungry pull in his chest, sometimes it’s okay to indulge—right?


End file.
